Loving a Genius
by TapTapAlways
Summary: This is the generally requested sequel to "A Portrait of a Genius" and "A Johnlock Christmas", set before the very last paragraph of the first story, and tell the tale of when our two boys start to consider getting wed after almost two years' of engagement.
1. Prologue

_So, by popular demand, here comes the third installment in the Genius verse. It will tell the story of when the guys finally start to move towards marriage after two years of engagement. I hope you will enjoy!_

 _TapTap_

John stretched out on the blanket and looked up at the clear blue sky happily. They were out on Mycroft's country estate (well, one of them, anyway) for a few days, living in a small cottage surrounded by roses this time of year, and John thoroughy enjoyed the peace and quiet, even though he suspected Sherlock would eventually get bored enough to crawl out of his own skin. But as of yet, there were no signs of that.

The cottage was small, with only two real rooms, plus a surprisingly luxurious bathroom, and not much of a kitchen. This, however, was not a problem as the main house, located about three miles away, sent them wonderful food thrice a day. Today that proved to be thoroughly suitable picnic foods for lunch, and Sherlock (and wasn't that unexpected) had suggested they grab a blanket - they had many wonderful ones to choose from, after all - and eat it out under the fruit trees.

John continued to bask in the sun as Sherlock had made himself in charge of picking the food out of the basket they had gotten it in, setting the little containers out on the blankets. Jon eventually leaned up on his elbow, surveying the food on offer. There was a cold potato salad that looked delicious, as well as a equally tempting dish of seasoned pasta, together with a whole selection of vegetables, cheeses and cool meat, such as barbequed and marinated steak as well as different kinds of filet. It all looked delicious, not to mention the different kinds of dessert pies that were even more tempting.

One box stood out though. It was a small, black velvet box that looked like a jewelry container. Puzzeled, John took it up, opening it without noticing how Sherlock suddenly focused all his attention on his face.

Inside was a white gold ring set with a large, ice blue stone. It was gorgeous, and a note above it said "Marry me, my love?" John let out a gasp and looked up at Sherlock, who smiled at him, though somewhat insecurely. John's heart leaped in his chest, and he opened his mouth to reply, only to find that he had no voice left for emotion. He nodded eagerly, blinking away happy tears.

A moment later he was in Sherlock's arms, clinging to him happily. John did not quite know where one of them ended and the other begun, but he did not care. After all, it was only fitting.


	2. Chapter 1

_Here we go again! All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

John hummed for himself as he puttered around the kitchen at 221B Baker Street, making an old favourite of Sherlock's for dinner. The flat looked much like it normally did. Ever since Sherlock's fall, several years ago now, there was no human bodyparts in the fridge nor any lab equipment loaded onto the kitchen table, just the usual comforting clutter of little odds and bobs around. And, different from during the genius' absence, all those small but dear evidences of him occupying the flat along with John.

Four large books were lying on the rug infront of the fire, where John had left them last night, and the consulting genius was lying in his "thinking pose" on the couch, fingers stapled, apparently lost to the world.

Humming for himself, John pondered yet again if this was the right thing to do. Just a quiet dinner at home. Exactly a year earlier, Sherlock had proposed, out at a cottage on the Holmes' family estate, which was ironically not actually inhibited by any Holmeses, as Mycroft lived in the townhouse and their parents preferred a smaller (and far cozier) country house in another county, except for parties.

Suddenly, as John turned to go open the refrigerator to put the tomatoes back in, Sherlock was stood leaning artfully against the doorpost, watching him with those all-deducing eyes. "Dinner will be done in twenty" John told him, and went back to his cooking, far too used to being deduced by now for being in any sort of distress from the scrutiny.

Unusually, Sherlock helped him to set up the dishes and cutlery, taking every opportunity to brush up against him innocently as he did so.

"You know" John started as they sat down together. "It was a year ago now that..." "Since I proposed" Sherlock cut him off, but gently, not in his usual sharp manner. "Will you marry me, John?" "You asked me that already". John smiled, looking down on the ring he tended to wear whenever he wasn't working in the surgery. "Precisely a year ago, I think we just established".

"I proposed to you, yes" Sherlock corrected him. "Will you _marry_ me?" "What, _now_?" John's voice climbed a little higher than normal in surprise. "No, I was thinking..." Sherlock continued as if the reaction had passed him by, which it had, of course, not. "Of maybe today's date... in a year's time?" John smiled at this, and nodded happily. "I would be honoured to, Sherlock".

After that conversation, John turned back to his food with a warm, happy smile, watching his ring and his fiance in turns with his plate. He was generally not one to gush about things (they had Mrs Hudson for that) but he was also a man in touch with his emotions, and he was not in the least afraid to admit, to himself or for others, how deeply happy he was to be with Sherlock.

By the time John brought the plates back into the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher (another welcome recent development to their homelife) Sherlock had stalked over to get his violin, and they spent the rest of their anniversary evening quietly together, Sherlock playing and John listening - just enjoying the company of each other.


	3. Chapter 2

_Without any ado - here's the next chapter. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners. Surprise surprise. Warning for non-explicite mentions of torture._

 _TapTap_

The first time John Watson tried to give Sherlock Holmes a massage, he had gone rigid and excused himself, just as he did the second time, and John had given up the effort. The third time he had tried it in bed, his only result a wastly uncomfortable detective who had not slept during all night because of it.

The fourth time was during their first Christmas morning cuddle, when the doctor finally got an opportunity to truly get to know the body of his fiance, though the detective was yet to propose at that time. The fifth attempt the former soldier made was just over a year later, when the genius had started to get more comfortable with having his back rubbed, and merely gave the doctor a slightly apprehensive look and then seemed to rather enjoy the experience.

Now, six months, and quite a few occasions later, John spread out thick down comforters onto the carpet before the fire, hoping to make some new progress in the area, and gently ease Sherlock into being more and more comfortable with being touched at the same time.

John willingly admitted to himself that he enjoyed both the caring aspects of giving a massage, as well as the chance for contact with Sherlock. The detective never reciprocated in form, but that was so typical for them - John did things in a traditional way, and Sherlock did them in his very own way instead. And Sherlock may never sit down before the fire to massage John, but he always took care to rub his back and to massage his hands if John got cramps in them after long surgeries. In the end, they were both equally happy with each other's different ways of doing things. They cared for each other, _took_ care of each other, and they both treasured that equally.

John looked up from his preparations as Sherlock entered, removing his coat. Being familiar with this rutine now, and noticing what was going on immediately, Sherlock automatically started to take his shirt and jacket off along with the coat and scarf. It was an immediate responce, as he moved into the room, but he stopped dead in his tracks upon seeing the massage oil standing next to the comforters.

Following his eyes, John gestured for him to lie down, smiling a little. "I thought we would try that today" he addressed the presence of the oils. "Don't worry - I won't be mad if you don't like it, I promise. I just ask that you try, as ever". Still looking rather doubtful, but not about to argue about it (somewhat unusually) the consulting genius sat down, before laying out onto his stomach in the prepared space, knowing by now what was expected of him in regards to pose, turning his head away. John kissed the back of his neck and took some oil in his hands.

John studied Sherlock's body language very closely as he placed his hands on his shoulders, cupping them lightly around the muscles. He had taken classes on massage, arome therapy and other alternative versions of medicine at a slow semester long ago during medical school, but nothing was as straightforward as you might think it to be when a Holmes was involved.

Sherlock tensed at the unfamiliar feeling of the oil, even though John had heated it on his hands and it ought not feel cold on his skin, but he made no move to try and stop him. "Sherlock? Does it feel alright?" "Strange" was the half-sulky mutter from the detective still tilting his head away from the doctor, but said doctor knew said detective far too well to take that as the obvious bad sign it might be with someone else.

It was common practise for Sherlock to turn his head away for two entirely different reasons, and neither was automatically displeasure; either he felt emotion of some kind and was not quite ready to admit to it - John was far too aquainted with this behaviour to push him, Sherlock would admit to whatever it was he felt when he deemed himself ready - and the second was simply the wish to have his neck rubbed. Which really wasn't bad at all, especially when it came to the context of a massage. And this time it could really be either one. John could almost bet that it was some kind of combination of both, actually.

John drew his hands down, looking for hidden knots and feeling through the muscles looking for anything he ought to treat, whether it was by massage or some entirely different kind of medicine. Their usual understanding about medical things withstanding, he always made a point to keep an eye on Sherlock, as he still could be a bit reckless with his own health from time to time.

"Sherlock?" he questioned as he felt with his hands down the detectives sides, having followed beside the spine all the way down to the small of his back. "I do not want you to go into your mind-palace now, you know". "It feels like the stage during torture where you are wet with your own sweat" Sherlock noted emotionlessly, almost casually, in response to that statement, making John freeze in the middle of the motion. "Yet the physical sensation is very pleasant, John" he sounded like he did not approve of this in the least, or maybe it was his own indecision which annoyed Sherlock.

"Different from torture then" John tried to ease the sudden tension in the air a little bit. "The only pleasant sensation of torture is when they stop" Sherlock noted, seemingly agreeing, still emotionless, turning his head to look at him now. "It can be nice when you stop too... it is difficult to... sometimes". John gently ran his hands down Sherlock's back, sighing "I know. You're doing really well. Do you like it at all?"

"I prefer dry hands" was the almost sulky reply as the genius turned his head away again. "But it isn't so bad. You may continue". But John knew him just well enough, that the words made him smirk.


	4. Chapter 3

_This is pure fluff - which is how we like it, isn't it? And we are now moving towards not_ quite _as fluffy things for a while. That's right - the plot is coming! As far as there is any, hiding amongst all the general fluffyness of this Quadrology. ;) All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

Actually _TapTap_

John awoke late in the morning of a sunny Sunday, and found that Sherlock was lying beside him, the detective's head pillowed on his chest, reading one of the books on bees John had given him for Christmas over the years.

"Morning" the doctor murmured, running a hand gently across his detective's back, smiling just at being able to do so now. A mere year ago it would have been impossible to touch him that way, would have made the genius tense up or flee (or likely both), but now Sherlock merely gave a satisfied murmur, much like the giant, posh cat that he really was, deep down, and didn't move an inch.

John continued to kiss Sherlock's head and just hold him close, enjoying not having to go to work or make some mad dash after a dangerous criminal today. "Shall I make us some breakfast?" he eventually suggested, only to get a objecting mutter for his only reply. Obviously, the consulting genius did not agree with the idea of moving. At all.

Quite content to cuddle for just a little longer, John let himself drift into half-sleepily reflections on how to spend the day, what to cook later on, if the two Holmes brothers would or would not have another epic fight without even speaking, this week. Probably. Or maybe not, after all, you never knew with those two. You had no clue, really, as they neither needed words with each other nor used them in the normal manner anyway.

The former army doctor smiled at that thought, gently caressing the head of messy black curls which just so happened to be right next to his hand at the moment. For a second, as he gently ran a hand through those ever-soft curls, and his fiance moved ever so slightly, he honestly found himself expecting the other man to purr.

The consulting doctor gave a slight laughter at that thought and at his own ridiculous mind and untangled - even though that took some effort, as Sherlock did not cooperate but instead rather seemed determined to cling to him - and finally made his way across the room and towards the kitchen, still smiling for himself. Life was good. In fact, it was better than he could have even dreamt of.

People said that a lot, John supposed as he put on the kettle and started on making them some breakfast to bring back to Sherlock in bed. There was plenty of that term tossed around, and he would perhaps not speak that way in front of anyone (except maybe Mrs Hudson - she was always worse with the romantics, so he was unembaressed on that account in front of her) but in his own mind, he felt he meant it sincerely.

He had many reasons for thinking that, as well, he pondered on. There were ways in which he felt he had really everything he'd wanted with Sherlock, not to mention that he had quite _literally_ dreamt of it during those lonely years of the fall. There was no doubt in John Watson's mind, at the end (or the beginning) of the day: he had gotten very lucky.


	5. Chapter 4

_Trigger warnings for self-harm... Ish? And be advised that this coming plot-twist seems_ far _more severe than is the truth, so do not be alarmed. It will be alright, I promise! If anyone wonders, this entire story is set between "A JohnLock Christmas" and the epilogue to "Portrait of a Genius". All recognisable content still belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

Everything seemed normal, as John entered the flat, even hearing Sherlock in the kitchen didn't faze him as while it had become far more unusual for the detective to be in there since they had moved his lab upstairs, it still was far from unheard of. He was Sherlock, after all. The unexpected was, as a matter of fact, to be expected. Contraintuitive as that was. The doctor had long ago learnt that whatever he imagined was about to happen at any given time, was the least likely to actually occur. Unless he thought Sherlock was about to get cuddly, sarcastic or talk about bees. That had been known to happen even if he thought that it might.

It was only when John entered the kitchen properly and saw his fiance that he stopped dead for a moment, only to grab a towel and move with urgency in the next. Sherlock was stood by the sink, very deliberately holding a knife against his forearm, and a small streak of blood started to bloom as John hurriedly stepped up next to him.

The doctor felt cold panic at seeing how the cut was made alongside the arm, not the scarring but somewhat more harmless type made across instead, as he tried to keep the adrenaline rush - for once not welcome - in check and just pressed on the long cut with the fabric. After a moment, he took it away to asses the wound. The cut was not actually deep, but seeing Sherlock _cut himself_ this way was really terrible, more so than it ought to be after everything John had seen during his life in regards to injury and ailments. Or perhaps, that merely made it even worse. The images promptly put in his head were only all the more vivid for it.

Sherlock seemed willing enough to let him take the knife away and press the towel to his arm again, leaning into John's body as he had taken to doing lately, but that only felt bizarre under the circumstances, and it did not calm the mad beating of John's heart one bit.

Swallowing to get rid of the lump in his throat, John directed a surprisingly cooperative consulting detective into a kitchen chair and very firmly ordered him to stay put. Even so, he was somewhat surprised to reenter the kitchen a minute or so later and see that his partner had, indeed, obeyed him. John, of course, was not to know that there was a certain _something_ in his voice when he gave the order which had Sherlock puzzled and a little bit alarmed.

Sherlock remained still and unmoving as John applied a general anesthetic and then carefully cleaned the wound and even made a few stitches. As an experienced field surgeon, he knew of course, that there was no need for stitches in making this heal up, the wound being only a very shallow cut, and he felt bad for inflicting even a minimal amount of pain, but he could just not help himself.

Even after finishing to care for the cut - still without a single word of protest from his partner - John stood for almost a minute with a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, mind still reeling. What had he missed? Why had Sherlock done this to himself? Why would he cause himself harm? John hated that he had to ask himself such questions, but not nearly as much as he hated how he did not have any answers. None at all.

 _Evil cliffhanger is_ totally _evil._

 _TapTap_


	6. Chapter 5

_Reference to self-harm. It isn't as grim as it may seem right now, I promise, as you will find out before long. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

John sat in his chair that evening and watched Sherlock's violin, which stood leaning against the wall near the window. He had missed Sherlock so much that it had hurt, for years, during the time when he had been gone because of the fall, back in the dark days when John thought him dead. And now, having truly been with him all this time, he could not even imagine losing him again.

He kept staring out the window as he wracked his head for what to do. A solution, any solution. Maybe there was something he could do? To make things easier on Sherlock? But he had to admit he had not even known anything was wrong, Sherlock had seemed very happy to him this last year, even more so after last Christmas, when they had made their last big leap in touch, as Sherlock had suddenly started to enjoy having his back rubbed.

It had made their relationship another step more equal in that way, and that had in turn made it even happier. At least, so John had thought. Apparently, Sherlock had not thought so at all.

It was with a sinking sensation in his stomach that John had to admit to himself that how much help could he truly be, if he could not even see it? What was it Sherlock always said to him "you see but you do not observe"? For the first time, John though that maybe that was true - he had always thought he merely observed other things than Sherlock did, but maybe he truly was a bit blind. or a lot, even, to miss something like this going on right before him.

He was thinking about the events of late, what could have possibly triggered something like that happening, make Sherlock even consider hurting himself in that way, when it finally hit him. Only days ago, he had tried giving Sherlock a massage, using massage oil this time, which was a bit of a leap from what he usually did. And there were other instances, recently, just touching, being close.

What if Sherlock had tried to hurt himself because of something he had done? John was a man of action, who liked to solve problems and was frankly addicted to adrenaline and danger, but if he was the issue, how could he solve anything at all? How could he protect his Sherlock, if he himself was the problem?

* * *

Sherlock watched John. His doctor was sat in his armchair, ignoring the rest of the world. He was watching first Sherlock's violin and then staring outside through the window. This would not normally have been a cause for concern, but the former soldier had not moved in over three hours, and the detective had started to wonder if everything as quite alright. Was he really quite this frustrating when he was caught up in his own head? He doubted it.

John had insisted on stitching the very shallow cut Sherlock had accidentally made while testing the edge of a knife in order to get just the right effect in his baking - turns out the knife was _too_ sharp - which was not like John at all. Normally, much as he enjoyed fussing over Sherlock, the blogger never did anything doctory when it wasn't needed (even if the need somethimes was merely emotional) and it was usually was very unlikely that he were to diagnose anything wrongly, much less so the depth of a measly cut.

So maybe, the consulting detective pondered as he watched his fiance, the question was why John had felt that either of them had that need. What needed to be stitched? Weren't they alright? Well, maybe that was too literal an interpretation. Maybe it was more of a need to be close? Had he scared his doctor? That didn't seem very likely either and he disregarded the theory, continuing to watch John. Then there was the matter of John's strange tone of voice earlier. It was not like him to be so sharp, and whatever else there was in that order. Finally, he had to conclude that whatever that had been about, something really was wrong with John _now_. This was not normal behaviour for his John.

It was just as uncharacteristic for his very own doctor not to give him any cues as to why he was upset. He had avoided him all evening, even before he sat down in his chair and proceeded to completely ignore him, not touching, not talking, not anything. It was nerv-wracking.

Was he supposed to do something? Or not do something? He couldn't think of anything, but sometimes - alright, all of the time - unwritten rules of relationships were complete and utter gibberish to him. Was there something John was unhappy about? He watched him shift and grow even tenser, and started to worry.

He hadn't thought so, he had thought that they were happy, and John had seemed particularly content as of late, but maybe something was wrong? What did people in relationships do when... whatever this was. Sherlock flipped himself down onto the couch and curled up in the fetal position in what John would have called "a sulk". This was just far too difficult. He couldn't solve this kind of thing - solving this kind of thing was John's job!


	7. Chapter 6

_Still light self-harm/torture mentions, very non-graphic. Mostly John needlessly worrying. I suppose there are references to..._ not _having suicidal thoughts in here. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

John looked up to note how Sherlock looked deeply unhappy, much as he had ever since the doctor had allowed him to rise after stitching him together, after John had found him in the kitchen, cutting. He felt fear, pure and simple, at the thought that Sherlock might have not wanted to be interrupted. That it might have been seriously meant.

"John?" John looked up to meet the worried eyes of Sherlock Holmes. "Could you... explain something to me?" "Sure". John took a deep breath, turning a little towards him, trying to be attentive. "It isn't fair of you" suddenly it all seemed to rush out of the detective "all evening you have been punishing me and not even telling me what I've done! It isn't fair!"

"Punishing you?" John frowned, turning to look properly at the detective, who was sulking in the couch. "You won't touch me, ever since you made those completely unnecessary stitches in the kitchen when I was baking".

"When you were baking?" John was not unused to being very puzzled in the presence of the great Sherlock Holmes, but this was as confused as he had been in a while. "I was testing the edge of a knife when you got home, and you then insisted on stitches even though it was completely unneeded. You might be the doctor, but truly, it was barely a scrape!"

"'The Doctor' is in doctor Who, love" John answered automatically in a fond tone, feeling a slight smile on his own face, before what Sherlock had said truly sank in. "Wait, you were baking?! You weren't trying to cut yourself?" Sherlock looked back at him without a trace of understanding, deducing him rapidly. "Why would I cut my own skin on _purpose_? I had quite enough of that during torture". The "thank you very much" wasn't said out loud, but it was very much there in the detective's tone of voice. He really was sulking.

"Oh" the sound came from Sherlock a second later, but the detective didn't move an insh, just sat there looking at his doctor, clearly entirely out of his depth.

John only took a fraction of a moment more, then he had his fiance in his arms, having moved across the room without even knowing how he got there. "Oh Sherlock". He kissed his head and cradled him, almost clinging, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind, instead soaking up the contact as if the lack of it, brief as it was, had been physically painful.

John leaned into his detective and just enjoyed the feeling of him in his arms and of being able to properly breathe again. "Did you really think I was trying to kill myself? And how was stitches going to help?" Sherlock's voice was amused, almost teasing, but there was also a very satisfying warmth in there. "Shush" John mumbled, resting his head on his fiance's shoulder.

"Silly John" Sherlock seemed content at this elementary observation, even fond, leaning against his fiance in turn and closing his eyes, seemingly perfectly glad to just sit there and cuddle.

 _And here comes the kiss and make up part of this little missunderstanding. Does that makes this Dark!Fluff? Because that'd be awesome!_

 _TapTap_


	8. Chapter 7

As the weeks passed after their little missunderstanding, Sherlock started to notice small, small changes in John's behaviour. Little pauses as he handed him his tea, John lingering far longer than normal after kissing Sherlock's hair, a slightly heavier pressure on his hand as he held it in the evenings.

John could not have pinpointed these things himself, did not quite notice, in fact, but he was aware of thinking about a few things he did not use to think about before. "If you were unhappy, would you tell me so?" he suddenly found himself asking, sitting one evening watching telly, his lap full of thinking detective. "You would know... you always know" Sherlock mumbled sleepily in response, burrowing deeper into John's lap. "That's true... you are not exactly subtle about it either, are you?" John found himself chuckling, gently petting the hair of his best friend and love. He only got a light muttering in response.

"Would you?" It had been nearly half an hour since they'd said a word and John looked down on Sherlock with surprise "would I what?" "Tell me if you were unhappy". "Oh" John blinked and thought about it for a moment "yes, I would. And probably include an instruction manual for how to fix it, too, come to think of it. You don't exactly do subtle well, emotionally. We're fine, Sherlock. I mean that". "Mmm" the detective agreed, closing his eyes like a sleepy cat, even rubbing his face against John's arm a little.

"What do you want for dinner? John asked a moment later, as the credits rolled in the show he had been watching. "Something it makes you happy to cook". John found himself smiling at that response. "Is that an attempt at being romantic, Sherlock?" "I don't do romantic" Sherlock huffed in response "and I do not try. If I _did_ do romantic I would _succeed_ ".

"Of course you would" John laughed in responce and bent down to kiss Sherlock on the head. "Sentiment" scoffed the genuis grumpily, but it was not lost on John that he made no attempt to pull away, and he smirked. Sherlock might be able to see through most people easy as anything, but _he_ could see through _Sherlock_ just as easily.

Gently, the doctor extracted himself from the detective curled up around him and headed into the kitchen, starting a stew and humming for himself. He had only been at it for five minutes when Sherlock's violin joined in with the melody, which was rather a Sherlock way of helping with supper.

John brought both plates to the carpet infront of the fire, making a point of starting a fire and then feeding Sherlock bites. The detective clearly did not understand the point of any of that, but he humoured him, letting himself be pampered and held, and John felt profound relief, suddenly, at how life had turned out, remembering so very well how closed off the love of his life had been not two years ago, and felt very keenly how fortunate he was.

Fortunate to have survived Afganistan. Fortunate to have found the love of his life, fortunate to have gotten rid of his limp and the tremour in his hand, so that he could once more perform surgery. Fortunate to get Sherlock back, to be loved in turn, fortunate to have the amazing friends he had gained these last few years, to have not one but two occupations he loved, and most of all, fortunate to get to be here, in peace, with the man he loved. He truly was blessed.

 _So this is where we leave the somewhat triggering parts of the story behind; the next chapter will move on to the next part of the story, where there will be slightly longer time passing in between the chapters, as this story spanns an entire year, set after "A Johnlock Christmas" and before the very last paragraph of "Portrait of a Genius", the first story in the series, whcih mostly takes place the year before the second part of the Quadrology. All recognisable content_ still _belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_


	9. Chapter 8

_This is pure fluff. Very goofy pondering fluff, and not very long. But it is hopefully a nice read anyway. Write me a line and tell me what you think, will you?_ _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

John kept his fingers laced with those of Sherlock's firmly, not letting the fidgety genius get loose. Not that the other man was trying very hard, after all. The consulting detective did not truly struggle to get free, they both knew that. John would let go immediately if he did, and they both knew that, too. For all that he didn't like touches on his palms, John was being very careful, and Sherlock did not mind one bit.

"Love?" John patiently tried to summon his very own genius' attention back to him, from whereever it was that he had gone. "Mmmm?" Sherlock's dark hair fell charmingly over his forehead as he turned towards his shorter companion.

Smiling, John reached up and gently stroked the hair to the side. "You alright?" "Yes John" the genius replied obediently, apparently having taken the doctor's lessons on civility very much to heart, at least when it came to John himself. When it came to others, not so much, their motherly landlady being the possible exception.

"It is a nice day out, no?" John attempted to draw him into conversation, and the dark-haired man nodded, looking over at the pond they were now walking alongside, in the park the doctor had led them too, right at the heart of London.

"It is". Sherlock must have really meant it, as he did not even look honestly bored. Maybe, John reasoned, he was amusing himself by deducing people, or, as he had taken to doing, deducing John in great detail. He did not know why that was so interesting, but if he had learnt anything during the last few years, it was that Sherlock being lightly romantic could be completely and utterly incomprehensible. He was used to, by now, that Sherlock expressed both friendship and love differently than most people did, and he didn't mind even for a moment.

John let the Holmes fall back into silence as he watched the ducks frolick around the pond, thinking back to a few weeks earlier in the same very park, when they had been hot on the trail of a murderer, who had eventually been caught by the occasionally unstoppable detective. Much as he enjoyed the speed and adrenaline of battle, be it war or the London battlefield of Sherlock Holmes, John was greatful for the calm and peace of these moments, when he got to see a Sherlock who's company was just for him.

He would never tire of the company of his best friend, John knew that, and he lightly squeesed his genius' hand, smiling to him when this got the taller man's attention. Reaching up to stroke another lock of curly, unruly hair out of Sherlock's eyes, John stood on tiptoes to be able to kiss him on the cheek. Life with a Holmes could be very weird, but he loved it.


	10. Chapter 9

_Well, this chapter did not turn out at all like I, or indeed, John, planned. Warnings for non-consensual picnicing. I am pretty sure that doesn't warrant a warning, but you know. You get one anyway. Just to be sure. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

They were in regency park, and John had brough a small basket with picnic fair. Strangely, Sherlock was, however cooperative when John showed he meant business, not in the least bit willing. John didn't care - it wasn't like picnic was a activity depending upon consent, after all. If Sherlock meant to sulk, he could.

It was strange though. John was entirely sure it was the genius that had instigated the picnic where he had asked John to marry him, and he had surely never displayed any adversion to it before. Now, however, the consulting detective sat at the edge of the blanket glaring, pretty much the image of "not amused".

Unbothered by this, more than used to Sherlock's unexplainable sulks after many years as his friend, flatmate and partner, John had stretched out on the blanket to enjoy the sun, pillowing his head in Sherlock's lap, enjoying the reverse position. He insisted on them staying for an hour or two, even coaxing his still edgy fiance to eat one of the apples he had brought along with them.

John made another attempt a few weeks later, when it was high summer and they had gone out into the countryside for a case. Sherlock seemed less on edge, out of London, but he was still not very cooperative.

That time, he allowed John to make him lie down and caress his hair, but he was still clearly no fan of picnics. Taken up with the case and the implications of a father hiding a deadly snake in his daughter's bedroom in order to steal her inheritance, John let the whole thing drop and payed it no more heed.

Having eaten two picnics mostly by himself, John did not even bother to try when they did a brief trip out into Surrey to visit Sherlock's parents, and he all but objected outright when Violet Holmes sent them out with a basket and a blanket for the afternoon.

Politely gicing in, John naturally expected another sulk and solitary lunch, only to be surprised by a cuddly Sherlock who rested his head on John's lap almost before he sat down. Holmeses, John thought fondly. Bloody incomprehensible creatures, and he wouldn't be without his for the World.


	11. Chapter 10

_Autumn Apples (Autumn Cuddles). Yes, that's right, this one has a title! Oh, the fickleness of plot bunnies. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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As september arrived, they had gone back out to the estate, wandering in their orchyard, which now held what seemed like a thousand apples, visiting yet another collection of beehives - John had come to the conclusion that Sherlock couldn't be the only Holmes obsessed with the small animals - and finally settling in the same little cottage where they lived last year, a little over a year ago now, when Sherlock had asked John to marry him.

In typical grand Holmes style, Mycroft had announced that when they finally did get married, the cottage would be their wedding present. And in typical weird Holmes style, Sherlock had become most excited over the prospect of the beehives near the cottage. John really did love him for all of his strangeness, after all.

John woke up the next morning, on his birthday, to a wonderfully smelling house and a breakfast of waffles, without him needing to even leave the bed. Sitting up, he enjoyed the sight of a shirtless Sherlock putting the tray down before him on the bed, and then walking around the bed to crawl back into it at the other side with a most adorable yawn.

"Where is my cake?" John joked, resisting reaching out to pull Sherlock into bed, as while the genius had doubtlessly grown far less uncomfortable with being touched, he knew very well that that would be pushing it. It wasn't like years back, after all, when he only had two options - to make Sherlock uncomfortable or to stay away.

As it was, all he had to do these days was wait, give Sherlock time to gracefully pad into bed and by his own volition curl against his shoulder. "I will bake one at Baker street. The kitchen here is dull" the genius replied rather blankly, his tone just the slightest bit sulky.

"Rubbish, at least" John agreed, chuckling and cutting the first waffle, making sure to put some on a plate for Sherlock as well, as the genius would surely not have any unless subtly commanded. Very subtly these days, when all John had to do was put it on a separate plate and the detective would simply eat it, no more prompting needed. Very manageable, really, and that wasn't all that common when a Holmes was concerned.

John spent the following hours of his birthday relaxing and watching old Doctor Who episodes, with a pleasantly - though somewhat strangely - compliant if not all that amused consulting detective. The genius however grew exceedingly amused when one episode showed a would-be-villain with a malfunctioning de-aging device who in his young form, however brief that was, looked remarkably much like his own big brother. John found himself laughing in the middle of the dramatic chase, merely because of his fiance's elation.

As they finished an absolutely wondrous dinner, sent over from the kitchen at the estate proper, John stretched out before the fireplace, home to a merrily burning fire, and heard with some surprise how Sherlock left the room. He returned moments later, kneeling next to him on the thick rug, carrying two flasks of massage oil and a heated towel.

John felt himself raise an eyebrow, but at the clear hint of the genius detective, he sat up properly to take his shirt off, and then rolled over to lie more cleanly on his front, exposing his back to the taller man, slightly puzzled as Sherlock had never done this before - indeed, this was more of his own modus operandi - but very happy to oblige, nevertheless.

Sherlock felt a slight, warm tug in his abdominal area as John closed his eyes and relaxed, trusting him though the doctor clearly didn't know what to expect. He ran his hands gently down the sides of the blonde's spine, much as his favourite doctor - alright, the _only_ doctor he had ever tolerated in any capacity - so often used to do to him.

Sherlock felt satisfaction to soon hear John sigh slightly in enjoyment and relaxation, but he also felt a stab of regret that few - not including his John, of course - would believe that he ever felt, that he had not tried this before. John clearly wanted it.

"This is nice" the doctor suddenly said. "More unpractical than just rubbing each other's backs, but a nice change of pace". He opened an eye and looked at him, the doctor's keen eyes - so blind of the little details crucial for deducing, but always so aware and competent with sentiment - registering his mood. "What is it? If you do not like this, Sherlock..." the detective shook his head. "I should have known you wanted this. After all, you did it to me".

"I did not know I wanted it myself, Sherlock" John closed his eyes again, the simple action meant to encourage his perceptive partner to take it up again, which he did, pouring some oil into his palm and heating it before using it for rubbing the doctor's shoulders. "It is far more complex than that. After all, you are very kind to rub my hands after too much surgery has made the muscles sore, but the fact that you are willing to do that for me does not by any means mean that you'd enjoy it yourself, does it?" the slight tension in his partner at the mere mention proved his point. "See?" he said softly, smiling down into his arms, where he's rested his head. "We are different, love, but we match. Embrace it, Sherlock. I do".


	12. Chapter 11

_Possible anxiety trigger warning! Nothing graphic, John gets reminded of bad memories._

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Lestrade was sitting behind his desk, holding a bag of ice against the back of his head. A bomb had gone off in a car in the middle of a very, very hectic investigation, in the middle of a very grey october afternoon, which had led to minor injuries for several police officers. Most of them were being effectively checked over by John and the rest by (somewhat less effective) emergency service personnel, and it was thus determined whether or not they needed to go to a hospital.

Greg was not entirely sure if he ought to tell John that every third or fourth person he checked over was, in fact, Sherlock, or if that would just earn him another thump on the head. Or worse. He had seen the doctor examine his fiance at least five times now, which was strange, as he normally found the doctor not only extremely efficient, but just as competent. That was not half as strange as the fact that the detective let him, though. It showcased a singular patience that more usually, not to say, to his knowledge at least, exclusively, were displayed in the other direction in that relationship.

"Stop it" "Stop what?" Lestrade looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. "I wasn't doing anything. Besides, this is _my_ office!" "You were thinking. It's annoying". Sherlock answered, completely disregarding the other half of the statement.

The Di snorted, then frowned. "Is John alright? That sort of explosion has to bring back memories..." he was interrupted by the detective rolling his eyes. "Of course it did. What's it like in your funny little brains? You're all so vacant. John has been taking my pulse every ninth minute since we got back here, he is obviously trying to cope with a light attack of PTSD, brought on by the clear trigger that not even you lot can have possibly missed".

"Every ninth minute, huh?" John stepped into the office with three cups of coffee, handing one over to Greg, saving him from having to reply to the consulting detective. The doctor was looking a bit rough around the edges, so to speak, but perfectly calm. "You are dealing with it" Sherlock said blankly, grabbing his own cup rather restlessly.

"You alright there, Greg?" the doctor asked, looking him over almost as perceptively in regards to injury and health as Sherlock would in regards to everything else, and the DI nodded, gruffly repeating words about how he was just fine which he had already told the parametics, Sally and a few random busybodies.

Greg drank his tea slowly while he watched the strange partnership which played out before him, as John once more grabbed Sherlock's wrist and the detective merely rolled his eyes in what looked like benign amusement, between two people that was so very different, but who in all things vital, might just be more alike than anyone had suspected.

* * *

John turned around after hanging up his jacket in the hallway, and found that Sherlock was watching him vigilantly. "I am alright, love" he assured his partner "a little bit on edge, but fine". "I will make you tea" Sherlock breezed past him, hanging up his treasured Belfast coat on the way, heading for the kitchen. Amused, John followed him.

"Really, Sherlock" he noted, pulling some leftovers out of the fridge to heat up for dinner, not up for something complicated at the moment "I am going to be fine". Sherlock shrugged off the comment, clearly aware, and John decided he could very well let his partner be a bit overprotective if he wanted to be.

Letting Sherlock prepare the tea, John heated their dinner up in the owen and devided it onto two plates. After a few minutes, they could settle together on the couch for food and tea.

With the telly on but not really watching, they ate their dinner mostly in silence except the occasional jibe from Sherlock about some incompetence or other from Andersson during the course of the case.

"It was a low point even for him, honestly he still lovers the IQ of the whole street whenever he speaks, I can practically smell the stupidity. How hard can it possibly be to separate a fingernail from a bright red dress?"

Or "Sally seemed less than impressed by his nonsensical babble today, and he no longer shows up smelling from her perfume. maybe she finally realised he wasn't going to leave his wife for her".

John kissed Sherlock on the crown of his head as he rose after the meal, busying himself in the kitchen for a few minutes, putting things away and making two fresh cups of tea. He was feeling a bit out of sorts after the day they'd had, but the peace of their flat and Sherlock's company had gone a long way to help him.

He returned with the cups to find the consulting detective's eyes focused on him again, but he did not comment this time. He almost jumped when Sherlock spoke. "Will you be able to sleep?" John considered for a moment, then shook his head. "I'd rather not try, at least not yet". He was not surprised, but he did feel a surge of affection, as Sherlock promptly responded, voice obvious "I will stay up with you".

Settling the cups on the coffee table, John went and rummaged around their DVD collection, finally settling on doing a bit of a Doctor Who marathon, specifically choosing that Lazarus episode Sherlock liked so much because the villain reminded him of Mycroft.

That settled, he joined the resident high-functioning sociopath on the couch, cuddling together so thightly that John couldn't immediately judge which feet were his and which instead belonged to Sherlock by eye alone.

They stayed that close together for hours, Sherlock not moving until the episodes had run through. When they had, he got up without a word of complaint to change the disk, returnign to the sofa with a blanket. The simple gesture made John warm inside in its honest care. They returned to their previous position and continued their marathon.

John started to fall asleep by the seventh episode. As he felt his eyes drift shut, he could also feel Sherlock brush a kiss across his forehead. Sherlock didn't usually do that sort of thing, though he liked it when John did, but it did not surprise him that he did now. To have a car explode that close to him brought John back to a large number of bad memories, and though he usually thrived on chaos, he knew it was only natural to have some side-effects from the trauma he had suffered in the war. And Sherlock, of course, had been able to read his distress like in an open book.

Rousing himself, John let Sherlock shut of the telly, and they headed to their bedroom together, Sherlock curling up around him protectively once in bed, like a giant, worried octopus. Closing his eyes with a smile, John mumbled a soft "thank you". He slept without dreams that night, and he was sure it was because of Sherlock.

 _So, this idea just suddenly jumped out at me. I am not entirely sure about the way it turned out, but that might just be writersblock speaking. Some feedback would be welcome because of that though, well, especially welcome. Remember that reviews is the only payment fanficwriters recieve for their work! And it pays appalingly bad, by the way._

 _Just to clearify: John is not meant to be suffering from a full-blown anxiety attack here, as that would be far more severe. He doesn't actually have PTSD in any distinct form, following canon, but naturally he's got some very nasty baggage from what happened to him. Such a clear trigger affects even him, who is generally coping well, aside from perhaps some rare nightmares. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	13. Chapter 12

_Snow Angels In London. Another piece with a title! And, as Christmas is now over, naturally the story goes towards winter! As I like to say - being boring isn't an option. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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"Dinner?" "Starved" John laughed, and heard Sherlock join in, like he would only with him, taking his hand before heading off into the snow which only just started falling. The doctor followed the detective without hesitation as was his wont, trusting him to lead the way as he no doubt knew exactly where the best, closest restaurant was and for how long they held open.

Sherlock let John hold his hand, stroking the side of the doctor's hand with a small, internal smile, not that he would ever admit to that. If he was alone with John, perhaps, but certainly not in public. The genius still hated having his palms touched, but he had stopped to worry that John might do that long ago.

As they walked on into the falling snow, John looked up into the face of his very own genius, his fiance, and smiled to see that his long, dark, curly hair was sprinkled with snowflakes now. It made Sherlock look several years younger, in John's eyes, and absurdly kissable as well.

"This makes me want to do snow angels" he added spontaneously only to get a raised eyebrow as well as a slightly changed direction, the detective leading the way through a park instead. John reached over and kissed Sherlock as the taller man happened to bend his head in his direction.

As they first entered, snow tumbling down onto their heads as soon as they brushed against a branch, John grabbed a handfull of snow and hit a unusually surprised Sherlock with it square in the back. Chuckling, John ducked in behind a tree, assuming that the genius would at least try to take revenge, and very aware that his husband-to-be had an alarmingly steep learning curve!

What he was not expecting, however, was to be hit from behind, Sherlock having sneaked up behind him instead of trying to make a frontal assault, and as he tumbled down into the snow with a undignified yelp, the consulting menace stood above him, grinning rather manically "well, you said you wanted to make snow angels, didn't you?"


	14. Chapter 13

_And here comes the mandatory Christmas Cuddles Chapter. Every story in the Quadrology that is the "Genius"- verse has one, actually! All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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John woke up with a big, warm smile on his face. Christmas morning had once more become almost as exciting as it had been when he was a boy. Sherlock was not in bed with him, but judging by the smell, he was merely cooking a very delicious breakfast. The former army doctor did not doubt that his favourite genius would be back very soon.

It was not even ten minutes later when Sherlock padded back into the room, unusually - but not unheard of these days - not wearing a shirt. The genius did not care to smile in greeting like John did, but he handed him the tray and gracefully flopped back onto the bed, burrowing in under the blankets and coming very close, and the doctor knew him well enough to interpret that as just the same thing. Between the two of them, they had agreed a long time ago that clear-cut honesty without any degree of nonsense was always the best way to go (Sherlock was rubbish with subtlety anyway, John thought fondly), and after all this time, they knew each other so very well.

They ate breakfast - toast, scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages - while they opened their gifts, both of them looking even more forward to something else, just as they did every Christmas morning since they started with their private tradition. At least John hoped it was mutual, as he had an uncomfortable feeling that the first year of this tradition had been a little bit like torture for Sherlock.

"No, I like it too" there suddenly was a whisper, right at his ear, and Sherlock rested his chin on John's head, handing him a gift that even wrapped obviously was yet another jumper. Starting to unwrap the gift, John noted "but it was difficult for you, especially the first time". "Tiring, yes, less so now, but I have always enjoyed being touched by you, John" Sherlock admitted in a rare moment of true, heartfelt honesty without a hint of distain for sentiment.

"Good" John didn't feel the need to say any more, instead starting to gently card his fingers through Sherlock's long locks, smiling for himself when this made the genius close his eyes in an unguarded moment of pure enjoyment. John of course took advantage of it to kiss him, grinning in success as this made the genius startle in surprise.

John then gently felt down Sherlock's sides all the way down to his legs, eventually reminding the detective of the procedure done with injured horses, mumbling softly but soothingly about muscles and why it was important that Sherlock should take care of himself, explaining things about muscle groups and biological processes which Sherlock already knew about, but rarely if ever thought about in regards to his own life.

Dull as that was to think about, and it really was, he did enjoy John's voice almost as much as he enjoyed his fiance fussing about him, not that he would ever admit to that, even at gunpoint. Nor did it matter, as he had little doubt John knew, anyway. After all, as he said, and he was very rarely wrong, John always knew.


	15. Chapter 14

_I don't know about you guys, but I personally, am sensing a theme._ _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _Note: This chapter has been reedited a bit, and John's memory of his first New Year's Eve with Sherlock as a couple, back before their engagement, has been added in. Some reviewers might have read it before as it was a review bonus fic, though it is now just a tad reworked. I got slightly nostalgic, truth be told, and felt like reminiscing. I hope you like it; enjoy!_

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Violet Holmes had decided to have a somewhat bigger New year's gathering this year, staying all week at the estate, and John found himself enoying the decision as he unpacked their things in a large, welcoming room, listening with half an ear to the two brothers Holmes arguing in the room next door.

He was just about finished when Mummy Holmes herself came in through the door with a benevolent smile, briefly shaking her head as she no doubt heard her boys through the half-open door. "Absolutely hopeless, those two" she grumbled, but smiling at John. "I was hoping to speak to you, John, about the wedding arrangements. I understood that you wanted to get married here, on the grounds?" "Yes" John suddenly felt lightly nervous, though he didn't know why, as the woman clearly approved of him. "We were hoping to, if that is alright?"

"Oh, it will be splendid, I'm sure" she spread her hands out a little bit, almost in hight with her own shoulders, as if to say "not to worry". "What kind of a wedding would you two like? It is high time to start planning, you know" "oh, eh... I haven't really thought about it". Sherlock rather thought that John looked perfectly sheepish to match the jumper he was wearing, as he and his brother entered the room. "We have a few ideas, mother, but I think otherwise we are willing to leave it to your discretion. John?" "Yes? Ah, yes, that'd be fine".

"That's settled then. John" Mycroft decided and with a nod to the doctor went towards the door, exiting merely with a "mummy" in acknowledgement. Sherlock went to throw himself sulkily at the bed after the "discussion" with his brother, and Violet Holmes winked at the doctor and went to follow her eldest son with an almost mischevious "I'll leave you to it".

Smiling for himself as he watched Sherlock submit to sulking, John sat down in the windowsill, remembering last year with a fond smile. Obviously, Sherlock had been sulking then as well, but that was pretty much a given; especially when there were people involved, or Mycroft, and this had both, to be fair.

Allowing his detective to finish his sulk in peace, John allowed himself to drift away in thought, watching the beautiful grounds outside.

 _John felt lightly uncomfortable. This was no doubt one of the most exclusive New Year's Eve parties he had ever been to. Very few were here and he suspected that at least half of them had some kind of title. Mycroft was not even the best dressed guest! As a doctor and military man, he was hardly a bum, but he did feel like a bit of an odd one out here._

 _He leaned against the wall, gently stroking a long, lean hand of his consulting genius, who stood tensely and looked out a window, obviously not happy at all at a social gathering, not even a small one at his parents' house. But he had come, as John had asked him to. The doctor felt lightly guilty, but tried to reassure his genius by the soft touches, hoping it would help Sherlock relax._

 _An older woman, with white hair and many pearls, suddenly approached them, smiling at John "well hello there, dear. I haven't seen you before, I am certain. How do you know Violet and Siger?" John smiled at her "we have a loved-one in common" he stretched out his free hand to shake hers, offering "I am John Watson". "Cordelia McHamish" she smiled back, shaking it "a loved-one, dear? And who would that be?"_

 _Here Violet suddenly appeared, cutting in with a large smile "why, Cordelia, John is Sherlock's partner! They work and live together since many years, and are now officially a couple as well" she beamed, giving John an approving look. "John is a doctor, and he is very good for our Sherlock, why, he even made him gain weight!" John smiled, though he thought that was perhaps being a little dramatic. However, Violet's friend looked suitably impressed._

 _Later that night, John stood looking out of a snowy window in a very cozy attic room - not Sherlock's childhood bedroom, he had been told - when the genius in question came up behind him and hugged him thoroughly from behind "do you miss London?" he asked. John shaked his head "not at all. I love it out here. I would love to see this part of England in the summer". Absorbed with watching the pittoresque snowfall outside the slanting attic window and with the feeling of his lover's arms around him John did not notice the distinct signs of a plan starting to form in Sherlock's head, before the genius whispered "John, I love you". John smiled, merely whispering back, feeling so content in that moment "I love you too, Sherlock, more than anything". And he lightly stroked his arm, glad to be here together._

 _As the darkness fell fully, they watched the snow fall outside together and then retreated to their bed, overlooking the fire together, entangled, until late._


	16. Chapter 15

_There... is no explanation for this one really. Only a surprisingly succinct summary: Snowball fight at the estate. Mycroft is not amused._ _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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It was John who started it. Later, they would all blame Sherlock, but it was always John who started it. This time, the doctor chose to lobb a perfectly aimed snowball straight into the back of the most dangerous man he'd ever meet, only to a mere second later toss one straight into the dark curls of said man's laughing little brother, leaving both brothers spluttering and making snowballs of their own, mostly tossing them onto each other, to the amusement of not only the doctor, but their father, who joined in somewhere along the line.

They were out until they were all splattered with snow and both brothers desperately (though they'd both stubbornly deny it) needed to warm up their hands, as they had foregone truly steady gloves, while their father and John had somewhat been more sensible (as usual).

Their mother, as well, found the sight of her sulky and wet sons somewehat amusing, but she restricted herself to having the servants draw baths and heat towels for all four of them, looking very pleased with herself as they all an hour later were relaxing together before the grand fireplace, actually eating and enjoying her cookies for once. No one was even arguing, since both brothers were far too tired to bother.

The evening progressed peacefully, with Mycroft contentedly reading a very heavy book which at least John thought far too serious for a relaxing evening in. Sherlock, worn out from stubbornly trying to hit his brother with as many snowballs as was humanly possible, seemed just as pleased with lying on the ottoman before the fire, getting warmed up again. He rested his head in John's lap as he liked to do, eyes closed which only enhanced the impression of a lazy cat.

John spoke with the two strange brothers' parents, complimenting Mrs Holmes on the Christmas cookies and slowly running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The two older Holmeses sat together on the sofa, holding hands and looking exceptionally pleased with the peaceful evening. Mrs Holmes in particular seemed very happy with her sons actually sitting still for once and not whining.

All in all, it was a perfectly pleasant evening, and if John Watson winked at her when neither of the brothers were looking, she wasn't going to tell, now was she?


	17. Chapter 16

_Still at the estate, still winter, still fluff. All recognisable content still belongs to its respective owners._

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It was the very image of a perfect starry night. They were sitting on the highest balcony, connected to the roof, of Holmes Manor, the main house on the Holmes' estate, occupied, for once, by an actual Holmes tonight.

John looked out over the fields, having never seen a night like this from this viewpoint ever before, and Sherlock remained beside him, watching his fiance more than the view or the stars, mostly bored with the peaceful setting, but staying there nevertheless as he knew that John would appreciate it, and would want his company. Many would never realise as much, but Sherlock Holmes could be very, very thoughtful.

It was simply a rather rare occurance, as well as a deep-roothed selectivity of who he chose to care for. John knew it well though, had experienced his exceptionally fierce loyalty first-hand more than once in the past, and he gently brushed hs fingers against his fiance's hand as he watched the stars over the grass and the very still and peaceful lake in the distance. He could only just make out the road to their favourite little cottage and orchyard beyond the treeline, everything dyed blue and silver from the almost full moon.

"It is gorgeous" the doctor noted softly, feeling a need to whisper, almost, not to disturb the stillness. Mycroft had left earlier in the afternoon, and the brothers' parents had left in the morning, leaving only the two of them there with the staff. Violet had assured him it was fine for them to stay on for as long as they liked, so they might just stick around for a few days and enjoy the silence and stillness of this place. "Mmmm" Sherlock agreed, suddenly burying his nose in the doctor's hair, not bothering with being his usual annoyed self in this peace when there was only his doctor there.

"I used to love to come up here and hide when I was younger. It annoyed Mycroft, too". Sherlock confided to his blogger in a soft, warm voice. "A clear bonus" John agreed with a snort, still looking up at the stars, leaning into his best friend and feeling only warmth, even though their breathing left visible mist in the winternight. They would go indoors soon, cuddle up before a fire and warm their no doubt cold hands on some perfectly prepared hot cocoa, and they would be warm and safe and so very happy, but for now, time was frozen here with them, just for a little while, and everything was perfect.


	18. Chapter 17

_I realised that despite the fact of her being pretty much my favourite character, I have only vague mentions of Mrs Hudson in this series. Now that might be because she is so perfect already that I can make no contributions, but I thought she ought to make at least a brief appearance, as she is awesome._ _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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It was on a rather impressively grey morning, even for London, that John came down to make himself a cup of tea and found Mycroft Holmes in the kitchen, smoothly sidestepping his brother's experiments (Sherlock had already dashed off to Barts) and Mrs Hudson, who was puttering about, tidying up around the kitchen putting things away while telling him in no uncertain terms that she was in fact NOT his brother's housekeeper.

John found himself smiling as he put the kettle on. Life with Sherlock might never be boring, but that wasn't actually exclusively down to Sherlock. "Good morning, Mrs Hudson". "Good morning, dear. Oh, how's your leg? It is this weather, my hip is acting up something awful". She had her special concerned, but somehow slightly critical face only used for bodily aches and certain Holmes' brothers being unusually daft on. "It is fine, the pain was psychosomatic" Mycroft cut in, about as patient as his brother in that department.

"Maybe some warm tea would help?" John suggested to his landlady, only to have her exclaim "Thumbs!", promptly close the refrigerator door and so leave the kitchen with some vague request or other that he take good care of Sherlock. Mycroft seemed to watch her depart rather benevolently, but then again he did seem to like anyone who was good to his little brother. "Perhaps because we are hard to come by", John guessed internally.

"Sherlock is out. But am sure you knew that. Would you like some tea?" John was in no way going to concern himself with that he was dressed in old pyjama bottoms and the jumper which was Sherlock's favourite on him, when the other man wore a flawless three-piece. He couldn't out-posh a Holmes anyway, there was no use to even trying, so he had stopped caring years ago.

"I know that, and yes thank you. I came to discuss the matter of rings with you" Mycroft took up smoothly. "Yea?" John yawned, not turning to look at the Holmes in question, instead busying himself with the tea. "Mummy is very adamant that the old rings in the family are equally available to both me and Sherlock. This opens for discussion, of course, of what rings you ought to be wed with. I trust my brother has not told you that the ring he gave to you" he nodded to the simple white golden band with a discrete but beautiful blue stone set in it that the doctor was wearing "is an old hairloom? Not, mind you, of the wedding band variety, until now, and quite a welcome decision, I might add". "No" John sat down at the table, handing one mug to Mycroft and keeping the other. "I must admit I rather liked the thought of just simple bands... maybe with some sort of inscription?"

"That would be agreeable, yes" Mycroft agreed, pulling out a folder and a small box "I personally would think that something with a discreet rendering of the family crest might be preferable... I brought some ideas for that, and also some older family jewelry which it is possible to modify, as well... I know that you agreed to let mother do most of the choises for the wedding, but this seemed more important".

"It is" John agreed, easily letting himself be persuaded to go over the options and make choises, leaving it for Sherlock to simply agree afterwards. Mycroft, leaving 221 B Baker Street after a mere two hours of very productive discussion and not one instance of namecalling, once more silently congratulates himself at their good fortune of having the good doctor in the family.


	19. Chapter 18

_They certainly seem to go out of town a lot during this year... then again it is not that far and they have a convenient place to stay, so why wouldn't they? All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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If there was anything, anything at all, John missed while living in London, glorious as it was with its complete and utter lack of silence, countless opportunities for an adrenaline high - or a puzzle, for his fiance - it was nearness to nature. Not that he had much time to reflect about it, busy as Sherlock kept him, and there were plenty of parks to sprawl on grass in as well, should he wish it. Picnics were ruled out at least if he wanted Sherlock for company, of course, unless they were out on the estate, but he could easily take a walk outside if he wanted to. Even so, John still missed trees and grass and a neverending sky sometimes. Not like Sherlock; Sherlock only ever missed bees.

As usual, John was not thinking of it for the moment, as he was busy running head over heals after Sherlock, the detective gaining fast on a particularly vicious killer who liked to toss acid onto his victims after casually nailing them onto walls. Losing sight of his fiance before jumping over yet another strange hindrance that apparently littered this backway London alley and finally turning around a corner, John caught up with the two sociopaths of which he had been in persuit, just in time to step into the final moments of their scuffle by way of hitting the not-so-nice sociopath hard in the back of the head, coming to the aid of his favourite sociopath just in time to be helpful.

Afterwards, sitting in the back of an open ambulance and watching Sherlock manage to swarm around all on his own, John reflected on the green of the countryside again, trying not to roll his eyes when it took the ambulance medic a full ten minutes to come to the conclusion that he indeed did not have a concussion (why he would, he had no idea) just like he said he did not, and that his knuckles was merely bruised, finally losing his temper and grabbing the needed items to fix it up himself.

Sherlock might have rubbed off on his John somewhat, the genius noted when the doctor eventually took charge of his own treatment, but only somewhat, as the doctor gracefully accepted a hand with it, maybe because treating your own hand isn't entirely easy, or perhaps because John always was the reasonable one, after all. Unless, perhaps, you took _all_ of his tea. Even Sherlock had never dared to try that out in practise, not that he'd ever wanted to - a tealess John would be an unhappy John, and he desperately did not want that.

As the doctor was finally freed, he came over, and was greeted with a typical post-case, wide grin. "This case. This case, John. It has been brilliant!" John smiled, giving a chuckle. "If you say so, you tosser. But Sherlock? This was a long one. Could we take a few days off?" Turning towards him and rapidly deducing, Sherlock suddenly lit up. "I can visit the bees!"

Their conversation was cut short then, as Lestrade came to get their perspectives on events, telling Sherlock off for his recklessness and asking John if he was alright. After assuring himself that they were both well, and would come in for official statements the next day, the Chief Inspector left. Naturally, the evening ended like so many other of their nights together did: with a criminal in custody and Sherlock and John trying not to giggle. It was, after all, a crime scene.

Two days later saw them lying on a safe distance from the beehives, on a blanket but their hands touching the fresh, just slightly long, green grass, John half asleep over his book and Sherlock well and truly intrigued by his observations, and both of them very happy indeed.


	20. Chapter 19

_So much fluff! It has been a joy to write, but this story is drawing to a close. There is only the epilogue to go, and then of course the fourth installment in the series, which was published last Christmas. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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One week. Only one week to go, John found himself thinking. Violet Holmes seemed to have absorbed most of the wedding planning, leaving John mostly with the task of keeping Sherlock from blowing anything important up, and that, that he could do. Usually, at any rate. He found himself grinning at that thought.

He was lying on his back on a blanket out in the orchyards, his fingers threading slowly through the hair of his at the moment fairly well-behaved, private genius, who was resting his head on John's chest, watching with great rapture the few bees that had made their way out here to pollinate the flowers. The doctor had absolutely no doubt that he would be finding himself dragged along to look at more bees later on.

They had been here for a few days already, and there had indeed been a whole lot of bee-watching already. It made Sherlock very happy though, and John couldn't say that he minded. In fact, he found the small creatures rather fascinating. Nowhere _near_ as fascinating as Sherlock obviously found them, of course, but enough for him to rather enjoy being dragged around to different beehives every day. It must be something running in the family, that obsession of Sherlock's, because there was a seemingly neverending amount of them scattered in all sorts of parts of the Holmes estate. They were all well managed, as well, it was clearly a priority to keep them maintained.

Smiling for himself, finding that extreme enthusiasm more than a little adorable in his best friend, John closed his eyes for a few moments, just to feel the warmth of the sun even more keenly.

Sherlock was, for once in his life, not really thinking much, lying sprawled across John, letting his very own Doctor, though he did not have a blue box, thread his fingers through his hair calmingly and humm, only so slightly off-key.

"Sherlock?" "M-hmm?" The doctor sat up slightly to be able to see his fiance's face. "Are you alright?" There was a pause, then the detective moved, locking on John's face and deducing him rapidly, before flapping back down somewhat in a huff.

John smiled at this response. "Is that a yes?" "I am very happy that you agreed to marry me and am not, nor will I ever, regret that I asked you to" the genius cut through the chase, as usual. "I wish we could marry without all this fussing from my mother, though".

John merely smiled going back to threading his fingers through the dark hair of his fiance, just assuming the topic closed when Sherlock suddenly admitted "I find Mrs Hudson's fussing much less irritating". It was all John could do to hold back laughter at such an admission.

"I don't know what we'd do without Mrs Hudson" he admitted instead, lightly scratching Sherlock's scalp as he talked. The consulting detective closed his eyes at that, and gave a small sigh, barely audible. "As I once said, 'Mrs Hudson, leave Baker Street? England would fall!' I am still right" he added the last four words a second after the rest, head tilted into John's hand, opening his eyes again to look at his soon-to-be husband. Chuckling, John assured him "I do not doubt it".

"Does this make you happy, though?" Sherlock asked after a moment, making John look down on him again. The consulting detective might look fairly undisturbed to someone who did not know his very well, but John could read the slight worry in his eyes as easily as Sherlock could read... well, just about anything about him.

"Very" John assured him simply, moving his hand to caress those sharp cheekbones, but Sherlock did not let himself get distracted. It was true. He barely even had any wedding nerves: he only looked forward to it. "I do not mind your mother, either. I think she has done this very well. Better than I could have. I am grateful she takes care of it, actually, and I am thrilled to get married to you, Sherlock. He was rewarded with an honest grin, before the former pirate-to-be added "you know, John, how I'd be lost without my Blogger!"


	21. Epilogue

_This marks the end of "Loving a Genius" - I very much hope you have all enjoyed it. This is the third part of the Quadrology of the "Genius"-verse and the fourth is called "My Sherlock" and is a Christmas special. Part one of the series is called "Portrait of a Genius" and the second part is called "Christmas with a Genius". All_ _recognisable content still belongs to its respective owners. I mean absolutely no copyright infringement with this series and do not in any way claim to own anything but my own plot and fluff._

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John did not want to open his eyes, afraid to find that he had merely been dreaming, but finally he had to, only to find Sherlock draped around him still, not wearing any clothes at all for a change, and concluded that last night had, indeed, been real.

The doctor ran a gentle hand across the slim shoulders so conveniently close this morning, and tried to catch his breath at the sheer wonder of getting to wake up like this. Sherlock and him would be getting married in four days' time, and last night, they had finally made love together for the very first time.

John had it always known that it might take a while to get there, as Sherlock not only was very reserved, but had his scars as well, but that had never mattered much to him. He wanted nothing more than much time to try with Sherlock, after all.

But now it had happened, and it had been magical. Awkward and a little nervous, certainly, but it could only grow better with time, and having that time was all he had ever asked for, after all, he decided as Sherlock slowly blinked himself awake, not moving his head, (or arm, or leg) away from John.

"John? Is... everything alright?" John could not help but smile softly at the familar insecurity which Sherlock only ever displayed when it came to their relationship. Maybe it was that Sherlock was not always very good with emotion, or perhaps it was simply because it was so very important to him. That _John_ was so important to him, like Sherlock was to John. "More than alright" he shifted ever so slightly to be able to press a kiss to Sherlock's naked skin, and there really wasn't much movement needed to do so. "Everything is perfect".


End file.
